Always the Little Entrepreneur

I’ve always been the little entrepreneur.  This is the story of my bread baking business.  

This all began because my dad started making homemade bread when I was young.  He got a sourdough bread recipe and yeast from my uncle Mason.  This bread recipe was far from easy and it wasn’t something the fainthearted would tackle.  This bread took time and sweat.  This bread would rebel if it were placed in a bread machine.  This bread wanted intense beating, stretching, and massaging – and that’s what my dad gave it.  On early school mornings, I was woken up not by an alarm clock or a knock at the door, but rather by the sound of the kitchen counter being slammed and shaken by a lump of that stubborn dough.  You see, this bread required the initial mixing and beating.  After that first beating, it was placed in an oven that was slightly warmer than the rest of the house for 12 hours.  The small lump usually tripled in size during that time.  Then another beating was required.  At this point, the bread was trodden again and all the tiny air bubbles that formed during that first 12 hours had to be hunted down with fingers that smashed, mashed, and popped every last one.  Finally, the bread was divided into 2 or 3 loaves – depending on if you wanted big loaves or small loaves.  But then the bread was not yet finished.  It needed another 12 hours to rise.  This stuff took a whole day to make.  Like I said, it was not for the person who is satisfied with stuff from a box.  Finally, and I do mean finally this time, it was ready to bake.  That bread would begin to cook and the smell would skip its way all around the house.  First, it danced in the kitchen, then made its way upstairs, and after awhile to my bedroom where it just rested on my nose that stuck outside the covers.  What a glorious smell.  Of course, I was already awake due to the beating of the other dough that would eventually be cooked the next morning.  But the smell of the fresh loaves made the sound of the unpleasant beating worth it.  

Everyone loved my dad’s bread.  They would ask him to bring it to socials and family gatherings.  He gladly obliged because during that time I think that he enjoyed the battle with the bread each day.  I think that he needed that stress relief.  I will say that I was not the easiest child to manage.  So while dad labored over the bread and gave generously, I began scheming and designing a plan to make some money.  If everyone loved this bread, I wondered what they would pay for it.  I had a plan.  A mission.  A start to a business.  I was embracing the American Dream.  What would I call it?  Blakewood’s Bread?  Jessica’s Joy?  I was getting ahead of myself.  I knew that first I had to test my market… see what they would pay… see what demand was out there.   

So I started advertizing in the neighborhood.  I had some experience selling things.  I was the #1 Girl Scout Cookie seller for two years while I was a Brownie.  I went from mailbox to mailbox putting my flyers inside.  These flyers looked professional.  I made them on our first home computer.  I was proud that I could use Microsoft Word to make something that looked so real and legitimate.  On the flyers I simply put “homemade bread,” my name, and my phone number. Calls began to come in.  I had orders from the Arrington’s, the Lynk’s, and the Sikes’.  So I started baking.  It was hard work.  Now I was the one who was beating early in the morning and at night.  Instead of just watching the Braves’ game on the couch, I was standing in the kitchen laboring over the dough.  I imagined that the dough was dollar bills that I was throwing around because I knew that this entrepreneurship would be what made me rich in life.  I was very confident.  My first batch of bread came out of the oven about 24 hours later and it looked marvelous.  That rich smell.  Those golden loaves.  It was perfect.  It was money.

So I began the process of delivery.  I knew that presentation was everything.  I got my childhood candy-apple red wagon out from under the house and washed it off.  I placed the loaves in the wagon wrapped with a red-plaid kitchen towel.  Now I knew that this looked cute.  And I knew that cute would sell.  So I made my way around the neighborhood.  All my customers were extremely satisfied with both their fresh golden bread and my timely – and cute - wagon delivery.  I knew they were hooked and would order more.  I was on to something good.

They did continue to order after that first loaf, but I still wanted more customers.  So I started talking to the kids on my bus.  I was always the first kid on the bus and the last one off.  I spent two hours of my life on that bus each school day.  It was miserable at times.  But one thing was certain - I knew all the kids on the bus.  So I started talking to them and I convinced them that my homemade bread would be the best breakfast and lunch food they could imagine.  By this point I had expanded my baking to not just sourdough, but also cinnamon bread, cinnamon raisin bread, cheese bread, and Italian bread.  I persuaded them to buy my bread over the tasteless, overcooked mush that is served in the school cafeteria.  I won them over and by the end of the bus ride I had orders for my mini-loaves from about half of the bus-riders.  I had to make two batches of bread to accommodate all the demand.  I was beating, smashing, and forming lots of money that night and the next morning.  When I brought the mini-loaves on the bus in the morning, the awesome aroma overcame the toxic bus smells.  It seemed that my lovely cinnamon, Italian, and cheese breads cleansed the air of the body odor and diesel fumes that usually infiltrated the entire bus.  I had won the kids over and they gladly surrendered their lunch money for my baked goodness.    

I suppose that most entrepreneurs are hardly ever satisfied – that’s why they push even further to expand their business.  I had conquered and captured the market of the neighborhood and the bus.  Now it was time to move to my final territory – the classroom.  Now I knew that the classroom would be a little tricky.  I knew that I would have to be sly in my attempt to win over my peers because I would have to work around my most difficult obstacle yet - the teacher.  I talked to the kids during lunch time – convincing them that the lunch I could provide would be better than the slop that was on the Styrofoam tray.  I challenged their thinking during snack time in the afternoon.  I spoke with imagery that made them think not of sugar-plums dancing in their heads, but of my homemade bread.  After a couple of days I had enough orders to make two batches of my mini-loaves.  I brought them to school in a brown paper bag.  My candy-apple red wagon would not be cute in the fierce halls of the 6^th grade.  I secretively and skillfully sauntered around the classroom during snack time distributing my orders and taking up the kids’ change and lunch money.  Internally I was skipping joyfully with my profits jingling in my pockets.  All my customers were happy and I sat down in my seat, content after a hard day’s work.  Just when I opened my social studies book and began reading about the political systems of Europe, Mrs. Wyrick called me into the hall.  Now I was not the shining star of the class, but I was most definitely not the student who got called into the hall either.  

Mrs. Wyrick said to me, “Why, Jessica, it was so nice of you to bring bread to the class to share with all your friends.”

“Well, yes, Mrs. Wyrick, I bake bread and I try to do what I can” I responded.  I was trying with all my might to cover my fear.  I knew that if I got in trouble the punishment would be intense.  I would most likely be grounded until college. 

“So, Jessica…” Mrs. Wyrick began.  She had a firm tone in her voice now.  “Why do you have so much money today?  I can see how your pants are bulging and hanging down due to all the change in your pockets.”

I knew that I was dead.  I knew that it was better to surrender early than to continue lying.  With my head down and my eyes fixated on the gray tile floor in shame, I shamefully confessed, “I’ve been selling my bread.  I know it’s against the rules in school.  I will not do it again.”

Mrs. Wyrick gracefully said, “Just don’t sell the bread again in school and I won’t say anything about this.”

I agreed.  I was distraught that I had disappointed my teacher.  Selfishly, I was also sad that my business would take a hit.  There was so much potential in that classroom.  In the end though, I was delighted that I did not have to take a walk to the principal’s office.  

The business continued in the neighborhood and I occasionally did some orders outside the neighborhood for bake sells and such, but it was never again at the height it was when I took over the lunch money of my peers.  Eventually both my dad and I stopped baking that bread altogether.  Maybe we grew tired of the endless beating, mashing, and squishing.  Maybe I lost the joy because I lost the profit.  Who knows what really happened.  But to this day, when I smell the delicious bread dancing out of the oven and filling a house, I think of my dad and my first business.